


Choice & Control

by MagpieMinx (CardinalFox)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Background Dub/Non Con Elements, F/M, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, Sexual Slavery, Unspecified Setting, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 14:27:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11648463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CardinalFox/pseuds/MagpieMinx
Summary: Somehow, being a sex slave to a god is a lot more and a lot less than you thought it would be.





	Choice & Control

There is no room for modesty here.

Some would say that it’s been stripped from you, you and every other person that’s been brought here to serve  _ him _ .  Not all of you came willingly, but it was made abundantly clear that there was no choice: if you hadn’t said yes, you would have been dragged here anyway.

You never quite understood how you and the others were chosen.  By what measure?  Where from?  There are at least a hundred people left here, speaking at least six languages that you’ve been able to identify, and a few more that you’ve asked about.  Skin tones range from Scandinavian pale to African dark.  There are men, women, those lying somewhere between on the spectrum, and those who don’t identify with the binary at all.  Some arrived in clothes more expensive than your car, others in cheap shirts and shorts with slide sandals.

The only things you all definitively share are an interest in men, though the degree of interest varies, and the fact that you’re all here, in this seized and occupied palace, to serve a man who claims to be a god.

For all you understand, he might really be a god.  He’s beautiful to the point of absurdity, his manner of speech flourishing, poetic and sometimes faintly archaic, and he’s able to do things that you can’t explain, spinning elaborate illusions with all the sensorial experience of reality.  He can multiply himself, make things appear to be different than they are, change your environment at his whim.

The last is something you have personal experience with.

The first time you were summoned to his chambers, you stepped through the door into an icy landscape unlike any you had ever seen, in person or in pictures.  You’d stopped, shivering in the thin, transparent nightgown you’d been given to wear, and then you’d turned with the intent of exiting the room only to find that the door had disappeared.

It was a terrifying prospect, having been thrown out of the marble floored palace and into the snow in the blink of an eye, with no way to return.  You’d remembered a bit of knowledge you’d picked up from somewhere, something about igloos being warm despite being made of ice and snow.  You’d looked at your hands in dismay, certain that you were going to get frostbite, but then you’d bitten your lip and dug them into the snow.

He let you build rough bricks with clumsy hands for fifteen minutes before dispelling the illusion, leaving you bent over and shivering, groping at thin air.  He’d laughed at you from his chair too, saying that that was the first time he’d seen such a practical reaction.  You had been too numb, physically and emotionally, to respond, but you had straightened up and attempted an awkward curtsey in your short, gauzy gown.

When he’d purred at you to come closer, it had seemed pointless to defy him.  You knew why you were here, what he wanted you for.  He might have a glorious purpose, but yours was a carnal one.  Resistance might turn it into the worst experience of your relatively short life, or you could submit to him with all the grace you could muster and hang onto your dignity through it.

“Kneel,” he’d growled, pointing to the cold marble tile between his feet, and then looked surprised when you’d done it without question.  You hadn’t waited for further direction either, just lightly rested your hands on his thighs and leaned in to nuzzle his groin, mouthing gently at the bulge there under the leather of his pants.

You hadn’t been experienced with blowjobs then.  You hadn’t been experienced with anything, but he’d been pleased that you’d tried your best, and then he’d made you clutch at the sheets of his bed, screaming his name into the mattress as he fucked you.  His strength had seemed godly then, and despite some experimentation with some of the others early on, no one’s been able to compare.  You have a suspicion that no one ever will.

Now, you’ve settled the matter for yourself: he’s a god to you, whatever the reality may be, whatever the truth is.

He’s a distant god though, what with his hundred or so pets to play with.  You’re not the one he calls for multiple nights in a week, nor are you the one who is never called to his quarters at all.  You fall somewhere in the middle, as you do in all other respects of this strange situation.  He remembers your existence every once in awhile, and sends for you.  You’ll go to his rooms, spend the night with him, then go back to your room in the morning.  

It’s a bizarre existence, but you make the best of it.  You spend your days reading, writing, sketching, wandering the gardens.  Word has gotten around about everyone’s behavior in the god’s bed.  Some people resist, some people pursue the god relentlessly.  For some reason, people on both sides of the spectrum fault you for the way you’ve chosen to handle things.  The fighters accuse you of giving in, giving up, of having no principles and no morals.  The pursuers scorn you, saying that you don’t have the drive or the will to compete with them for his attention.  You avoid them if you can.  

The god wants to see you tonight, unusual since he last called for you less than a week ago, and you didn’t expect him to call you back again so soon.  You puzzle this out while you bathe and rid yourself of body hair, a thing the god does not require, but which you do for your own peace of mind and comfort.  Part of you reflects on how much stronger you find yourself clinging to the standards of a society you find yourself mostly cut off from the longer you’re here in this place, the other part of you wonders what happened last time to make him call for you again so quickly.

You retrace the events as you scrub your body with a cloth under what would be described as a rainfall shower at home.  It had been relatively normal, hadn’t it?  He’d had you kneel between his feet, suckle, lick, and kiss his cock while he stroked your hair in long, slow, firm strokes that had felt more possessive than gentle.  

He’d pulled away before you could make him cum, picking you up and then spilling you onto his bed.  He’d separated your thighs, effortlessly spread them wide while he’d licked you and made you whimper his name because you know how much he likes to hear you say his name.  He’d fucked you after that, pinned your limp, unresisting hands to the mattress while he drove his hips home and made you cry for him.

But then he’d sent you away, hadn’t he?  Unusual, since he normally kept you the entire night, like everyone else.  He was never satisfied with just one fuck.  He might let you sleep and he might sleep too, but he would always wake up again.  Three times during the night was more typical, so you’d been surprised when he’d sent you back to your room so quickly.  You’d hesitated, wanting to ask why, before you remembered your place and gathered your clothes and stepped out.

You rinse away the soap, turn off the water, wrap yourself in a thick, fluffy towel, using the corner of it to wipe your face.  You pat your body dry as you consider the oil on your bathroom counter.  Should you use it?  You’ve heard the others talk during meals, how much the god apparently loves the scent of the flowers it’s drawn from.  You’ve never used it before going to spend the night with him though you’ve used it at other times.  You were never sure if you wanted to take that step towards pleasing him.  Isn’t it enough that you’re obedient?

You tear your eyes away from the oil, checking the time and lamenting the fact that there’s no time to really apply cosmetics.  You don’t like keeping the god waiting, and you’ve heard about the punishments he inflicts when he’s waited longer than his temperament of the day will allow.  Ordinarily, you have more warning, plenty of time to wash yourself and skillfully apply the massive collection of cosmetics you’ve been provided.  Today, you only have enough time to apply your favorite lipstick (red, liquid, matte, guaranteed not to move no matter what you put it through) and then you’re pulling on a silky robe and hurrying down the corridor.

You don’t think too much about your nudity, about the fact that anyone in the hall will see as you adjust your robe over your shoulders.  It’s only nudity, and everyone here has seen much more than just unclothed bodies.  Everyone needs something to fill their time, and while you’ve indulged in quiet, solitary pursuits, many of the others like to enjoy each other the same way the god enjoys them.  Since the purpose of everyone’s presence here is sex, many have unleashed their inner hedonists.  They like to play together until the early hours of the morning, festivities you’ve never taken part in.

You take the turns you memorized from your first summoning, bare feet sticking to the cold marble and giving you enough traction to walk fast as you wrap your robe around yourself and loosely knot the tie around your waist.  The robe loosens immediately, and you hope it looks attractive rather than sloppy as you slow and approach the god’s door.

You’re breathing much too hard, a combination of speed walking and nervousness, and you put your hand over your heart and close your eyes as you force yourself to breathe deeply and slowly.  You have to calm yourself before you enter, a personal standard since you don’t want the god to see you flustered too early.  Like a shark, once he’s scented blood he can’t resist the lure of it.  That and the more flustered you are, the harder it is to guess what he wants, and the harder it is to obey him quickly, without thought.

It’s a very particular state of mind that you require yourself to be in before you knock, but you’ve grown more practiced at finding it and you reach it quickly now.  A final breath and you open your eyes, lift your hand from your chest and knock on the door.

“Enter.”  The god’s voice is muted through the door, but you hear it, your ears now tuned to his voice.  You turn the door handle, step inside, and then close the door behind yourself.

The god’s rooms are opulent to a degree that is as absurd as his own beauty.  Everything is cream and gold and sage green with touches of the deep, emerald that appears to be his preferred color.  You suspect that the room originally had this rococo feel and that only the deeper green has been added.  Still, it’s more delicate and feminine a feel than you had originally thought he would enjoy in decor.  He appears to balance the influence through sheer presence, infusing the space with masculinity in the form of body, speech, movement, and shed clothing.

Usually, he’s sitting and fully clothed when you arrive; today he is standing in the center of the room, shirtless, with a glass of wine in his hand.

“Sit,” he says briefly, indicating with the wine the chair he’s normally sprawled in when he’s been waiting for you.  You stare at him, then at the chair, then at him again before you shake yourself out of your stupor and plant yourself in the chair as directed.  You arrange your robe over your knees, smoothing it before letting your hands fall into your lap.

“You’re not like the others, are you, pet?” he comments, taking a sip from the glass as he examines you from an arm’s length away with light eyes, “Even the most obedient of them, they slip.  You don’t.  Whatever I ask you to do, you perform.  Your face may burn with the humiliation of it, but you obey regardless.  And yet…”

He trails off, and you wait because he’s not asking you a question.  He’s thinking out loud, and his tone is amused, but there’s an undercurrent of restlessness.  He steps closer abruptly, bending down so that he’s nearly on your level, and you can’t stop yourself from flinching at the sudden proximity though you recover quickly.

“And yet nothing seems to touch you, does it?” he continues, head tilting as he observes you from up close, “You sit here in this chair with the kind of dignity that my fighters wish they had, and which my whores think is less than worthless.  Even the day I took your virginity, it was if you had already heard every possible command I could have given you.”

The more he speaks, the more confused and incredulous you feel.  Who is he describing?  The person he’s talking about sounds as if they have the patience to withstand the apocalypse and the kind of impassive certainty that you wish you had.  You’re not patient or certain, you’re afraid and full of doubts, the majority of which you couldn’t articulate if you tried.

“I try to obey you,” you say, but the words aren’t quite right, and you know it as soon as you say them.  The god scoffs, straightening up and swirling his wine in its glass.  It’s something dark and red, though you don’t know what.  You tried to learn about wines before, you know most of the names, but you can’t identify it by color.

“Yes, and you do very well at it,” he says before taking a swallow that halves the wine remaining in the glass, “But you have no feeling for it.  Prostrate yourself before me.”

You consider the word ‘prostrate’ for a moment before you slide off the chair and onto your knees on the floor.  You press your palms to the tiles for a moment, then let them slide out in front of you as you bow your head until your forehead touches the floor.  It’s an uncomfortable position, but you think that that might be the point.  That and the vulnerability of it, your ass in the air, your upper body laid out in supplication.

He circles you, and you hear the chair behind you being pushed away.  You imagine him doing it with his foot, and then you imagine him kicking you from behind while you’re like this and have to suppress a shiver.  You know he can be cruel enough to do it, the fighters come back with bruises that they say he didn’t even lose breath over giving them, that he laughed when they begged him to stop.

“Very nice,” he murmurs, a purr rolling in his intonation that makes you breathe a sigh of relief, “But no hesitation there either.  What will you look like when you get up, I wonder?  Will I believe in your sincerity?”

The more he talks, the less you understand.  What is he playing at here?  What does he want?  What is he trying to make you do?  He’s rarely as straightforward as you wish he were, but you like to think that you’ve grown adept at interpreting him.  You don’t think you’re mistaken, it’s just that this isn’t what’s normal between the two of you.  He’s supposed to sit in his chair, supposed to stroke your hair while you suck him off, pin you down while you writhe and scream his name the way he likes.  He’s supposed to be powerful, sexual, dominant.

It’s not that he’s lacking in these qualities, they’re there in the way he says, “Get up, pet.”  You scramble to your feet and realize that it’s you that’s changed, or more accurately, it’s how he’s seeing you that’s changed.  You’re not weak, sexual, submissive, but if you’re not these things, then what are you?  What is he seeing you as?

He circles around to your front again, lifting your chin on his curled index finger as he towers over you.  He peers into your face, his eyes green-blue, or maybe blue-green, intent and searching as he studies you.

“Ha,” he laughs, pulling away, “As I thought: no sincerity whatsoever.”  He throws back the last mouthful of wine, moving towards the bed and setting the glass on the nightstand.

His pronunciation smarts, stinging like a sharp little slap against your cheek.  It’s not untrue, as far as you know, but your kowtow was real.  He told you want he wanted, and you did it, and you narrow your eyes resentfully at his back before you force your expression back towards something more neutral.  You’ve avoided making him angry thus far, and you’d prefer to keep it that way.

He turns, fingers flicking open the fly of his leather pants, then sits on the edge of the mattress.  He spreads his thighs wide, says, “Come along, pet.  Get to it.  Let us see if we can get something genuine out of you.”

This is no less insulting than all the rest of it, but you set your teeth and cross the room to approach him, untying your robe and shrugging it off.  It flutters to the floor behind you, and then you’re kneeling between his feet again, reaching into his pants to grasp his hot, thick cock.  You maneuver it out, and then his hand is in your hair, gripping hard as he pulls your head back so that he can look into your face.  You can’t help the little noise you make, or the way you struggle for a second before you go limp against his hand.

“Ah, there it was,” he murmurs, stroking your cheek with the fingers of his other hand, “That was real.  How should I coax that out of you, hmm?  Pain seems to work, shall I continue?”

“No!” you say, fast and breathless, but then you flounder, caught between anger and fear.  You want to protest that you’re real, that the choices you make are real, but another part of you just wants to beg him shamelessly not to hurt you.  

“You're not begging me,” he observes tartly, his fingers sliding off your cheek and sliding down your throat, to your collarbone, and then past it.  When he reaches your breast, he takes your nipple between his thumb and the side of his finger, pinching down hard and then twisting mercilessly.  The pain burns and leaves you breathless, trying to pull oxygen through your open mouth, short exhales transforming into desperate whines as you squirm and try to pull away.

“So I have to react however you think I’m supposed to react?” you demand, your voice high-pitched with panic and anger starting to win out, “That’s not how that works!”

“Isn’t it though?” he asks, twisting your nipple further and leaving you gasping with pain, “I’ve played with more mortals than just you and your companions, pet.  I know what I’ve seen.”

“You tell me I’m different, and then you tell me that I’m supposed to be the same as everyone else?  Make up your damn mind!!”  The words explode out of you with such vehemence as you twist, and perhaps out of surprise, the god releases you.  You tumble to the floor, hands splayed on the cold marble, and for a second you’re surprised too.

But then your anger comes back and you bounce back up to your feet and stand over him, this Loki who calls himself a god.  His dark eyebrows are arched with interest, his expression open and innocent, and for all that it looks sincere, you know it’s not.  For a moment, you want to tear his hypocrisy wide open, but there’s something more pressing rising to the surface, the truth that he’s seeking, the truth that you’ve been living.

You’re not like the others.  They now define themselves almost entirely by their relationship to Loki, whether they are fighters or whores, how skillful they are at pleasing him, how often he calls them to his bed.  You define yourself according to the things you pursue, by your reading and writing and sketching, by your walks in the garden and the makeup brushes on your counter.  Loki is only a small portion of the things you do that tell everyone else who you are, just one more thing that you  _ choose _ to do because that is where the true power lies: choice.

“There’s more to me than you,” you say crisply, trying to reign in your temper while the words leave your mouth like gold, heavy and solid and valuable and shining, “More to me than the god I serve.”

“A pretty sentiment,” he says, still looking up at you with that same mild fascination, “And a pitiful one.  You continue to live only because I like having you in my bed.  Remember that, pet.”

“That doesn’t erase who I am,” you say, feeling a weighty sense of calm settling over you, “I chose you, and that was real, as real as any of the other things I do.  I  _ choose _ you.”

You put a hand on his shoulder and push him back just enough for you to climb onto the mattress over him, your knees on either side of his hips.  His hands wrap around your hips, surprisingly gentle as you reach beneath you with your freehand, adjust the angle of his cock.

“You believe it to be that easy, pet?” he asks silkily, a warning wrapped in sensual velvet purring, “Saying that you choose me and then pretend to take charge?”

“Are you stopping me, Loki?” you ask, preparing to sink down only to find his fingers tightening and refusing to allow you to do so.  You grind your teeth together and wriggle, but he doesn’t relent.

Suddenly he moves, swinging you through the air and then down onto the bed.  You gasp for breath at the impact, though it’s softer than it would have been on the floor, but now he’s disrupted your plan.  Before you were straddling his thighs, now you’re on your back with his hips slotted between your spread thighs.

“Inform me if I’m stopping you, pet,” he says, rolling his hips so that the underside of his cock comes into contact with your exposed folds, “Are things proceeding according to your little plan?”

It’s not, but you don’t feel the need to say that out loud.  You can acknowledge that it’s happening, and that’s more than enough.  You grit your teeth, wrap your legs around his waist and use his body to pull yourself up, press your cunt against his cock and roll your hips.  He laughs, one hand leaving your hips and coming up to wrap around your throat, pressing in under your jaw and forcing your head to tilt back while he kisses you.  You stroke his tongue with your own, and then his other hand, still on your hip, presses you effortlessly back to the mattress.

He pulls away after a moment, his smirking lips wet and drawn thin over his white teeth, saying, “Choosing doesn’t give you control, pet,  _ power _ gives you control.  And you will never have enough power to control me.”

You can’t help laughing yourself because how has he so thoroughly missed the point?  “I don’t want to control you, Loki, I want to control  _ me _ .”

“And this is your control of yourself?” he asks, tightening his hand around your throat, and you arch your neck further, pressing into his palm, accepting this and letting your breath go quick and shallow.

“You might be surprised, my god, what control choice might give you,” you reply, feeling giddy with your tiny victory.  Small though it is, it determines who wins this war, who emerges the master of yourself.  Loki may have power over you, but you are the only captain of your soul, and the knowledge of this frees you in a way that you relish.  

There’s a pause, and you blink up at Loki and find him looking down at you thoughtfully before he murmurs, “So this is who you are under all that.”

“And does it please you?” you ask coyly, still riding the high of knowing that you’ve won the ultimate battle.

“It’s more interesting than your other manner,” he responds, but then he smiles wickedly, “I suppose that this requires some sort of reward, doesn’t it?”

“I was under the impression it was more of a joint effort,” you return glibly, and you wonder if you’ll still be so bold the next time Loki calls for you.  He draws your attention from your thoughts by stroking your throat gently with his thumb.

“You did the lion’s share with all that philosophizing, pet,” he says, leaning down to hover over your lips, his black hair falling around his face and yours, “And I don’t believe a word of it, but I like the side of you it brings to the surface.  Still obedient, but with the passion you were lacking.”

“Then I’ll just have to tell you again,” you say, his admittance bothering you much less than you thought it would.  Truth is still truth-shaped, for all that it has the colorings of reality, and now that you’ve spoken it once, you can speak it again.

“Spare me the lecture this evening, won’t you?” he says wryly before he kisses you, preventing you from answering at all.  You tighten your thighs around his waist as you kiss him, his tongue rubbing sensually along yours, his lips warm and soft.  He lowers his body onto yours, his chest pressing heavily into yours, his hips warm on the backs of your thighs and your core.  The full body contact makes you sigh, a sense of satisfaction growing slowly in your chest.  

His hand leaves your throat, and then it and his free hand are settling on either side of his shoulders as he slides down your body, pressing his lips to your chest, your stomach, your pubic bone.  You shiver at the drag of his skin against yours, the way no matter how tight you squeeze your thighs together and try to trap him, you’re not strong enough to do it.  You won’t deny that there’s appeal to being dominated by a man who has little to no trouble handling you, who you can’t overpower, no matter how hard you try.  

He puts a hand against your inner thigh, spreads you wide as he lays a kiss on the hood of your clit.  You let your legs fall open, offer yourself up to him as easily as you always have, and he laves your clit with his tongue, rolling the slick muscle over your sensitive flesh.  Your head falls back onto the mattress, and you let your eyes close as his tongue slides down, his nose nudging against your clit as he circles your entrance. He breaks off using his tongue, instead pulling your folds into his mouth to suck on them, pressing them gently between his teeth.  You gasp when he does, but then he soothes the soft bites with his tongue and more suckling and you whimper.

“There, now you’re wet enough for me,” he purrs against your core, rubbing his lips against your clit as he speaks, “What did you think you were doing earlier, trying to mount me?  You’d have torn yourself apart, pet.”

“I was-” you start to say, pausing to moan when he pulls your clit into his mouth, sucking on it while he drags his tongue along the sensitive flesh, “I was trying to make a point-”

“You should know better than to hurt yourself in the pursuit of a point,” he says somewhat sternly, lifting his head from between your open thighs.  You catch him looking at you over the rise of your pubic bone, but the disapproving expression he’s wearing is languid and mild.

“Well, I wasn’t trying to hurt myself!” you protest, “It was a heat of the moment kind of thing!”

“You’d have done better attempting mastery with a kiss,” Loki says with a laugh, pushing himself up from the mattress and crawling over you, settling between your thighs so that his cock rests against your pussy.  It’s thick and hot and distracting, and you squirm under him.

“I’ll take that under advisement,” you mumble, finding it hard to continue being so self-assured now that he’s nose to nose with you again and smelling of your arousal.  You wrap your legs around his waist again, reaching up to rest your palms against his chest only to have him take your wrists and pin your hands to the bed.  

“Look at me, pet,” he says, his voice hypnotically soothing, drawing your attention so that you’re blinking up at him and alert for the next command, “I want to see your face as I breach your cunt with my cock.”

You’re not consciously aware of holding your breath, but the moment he starts to push into your pussy, you inhale sharply.  It’s always a stretch when he first takes you, and he’s pacing himself slowly today, sinking an inch into you withdrawing a bit, then pushing a little further into you, working himself deeper and deeper.  The thickness of him cleaves your insides apart, forcing your walls apart around him, your eyes going wide.  He watches your expression with interest, and then he’s bottoming out, butted up against something inside you and grinding against it and your clit.

He applies steady pressure against your cervix, circling his hips lightly, his pubic bone rubbing firmly against your clit.  It’s a different kind of pleasure than what you’ve experienced before, and your back arches and it becomes hard to hold his gaze the way he clearly wants you to.  You try to breathe through it, but the feeling is building the longer he stays there, until your first orgasm knocks the breath from your lungs and rushes over you before you know it’s coming.  Your eyes close and you buck against him, trying in vain to get more from him, but he’s withdrawn now and is fucking you with short, shallow strokes.  It’s enough to draw your climax out a bit, not enough to keep it going, and you writhe beneath him and whimper.

“So easy to please,” he laughs, kissing your mouth and leaving the faint taste of your pussy on your lips as he does.

Except then he pulls out altogether and you whine in protest, “Loki!  Please!”

He shushes you, releases your wrists and then turns you over onto your stomach.  He spends time arranging you just so, lifting your hips, spreading your knees, playing with your cum-slick cunt as he slips fingers inside you and then coats your clit with the wetness.  You moan and rock back against his fingers, but he does no more than draw light little circles over your clit with those long, clever fingers.

“Are you needy for your god?” he asks, half-teasingly, but when you whimper his name and arch your back, he growls with satisfaction.  He wraps his hands around your hips, presses his cock back into you, filling you up and seeming to go even deeper into you than before.  You shudder and mewl under him, reveling in the feeling of being split open again on his cock, rocking back against him as he starts to fuck you in earnest.  He pulls out to the head, then drives into you, his hips hammering against your ass.  

He lets go of your hips and for a moment you have no idea where his hands are, unable to track them when he’s sliding over and against those places inside you that make heat flush through your abdomen.  Suddenly, one of his hands is wound into your hair, pulling your head back, and his other arm is wrapped around your body so he can stroke your clit with sticky fingers.  You clench around him, pulling on his grip in your hair, wishing you could hide your face in the sheets while you pant, shamelessly open-mouthed.

The pistoning of his hips is fast and relentless, and at some point you can no longer rock back against him or squirm or anything.  You can only arch your back and present your cunt for him to take over and over and over again.  In and out, leaving you aching on both ends of it; once with the emptiness, once with the fullness.  The steady stimulation has you coming up on another orgasm fast, and for a moment you have the thrill of teetering on the edge, just before the fall.

Another thrust and you cry out, feeling like you’re melting and completely weightless at the same time, turning liquid under the smooth circles of his fingertips over your clit.  Somewhere, distantly, you hear Loki groaning and praising you for cumming on his cock like a good pet, calling you a superb slave to his master, soaking his cock with your cream while he fucks you.  You moan an agreement that might have words attached to it, but you’re not sure.

You can hear someone calling Loki’s name over and over, but it takes you a moment to recognize your own voice, high-pitched with desperation and need, begging Loki to fill your cunt with his cum.  He grunts, his thrusts stuttering, hips jerking spastically as he reacts to your begging, flooding your sopping pussy with cum that overflows quickly.  It leaks out of you around his cock, thick and slightly gritty, running down your thighs in streaks and likely dripping down his balls.  You have the hazy thought that it’s unreal how much he cums, something you always have and always will chalk up to his being a god.

He drapes himself over your back, purring contentedly, nudging your knee with his.  This move starts your knees sliding across the sheets, and with his weight added, your hips sink back to the bed.  You bask in the feel of his weight and body heat on your back, pressing you firmly into the mattress, his cock still hard and firmly lodged inside of you though more liquid is currently leaking out of you in fits and starts.  You’ll twitch, he’ll twitch, and then more of your combined cum will run out of your fully occupied cunt.  You focus on breathing, resting your cheek against the mattress, the warmth of afterglow radiating through you, leaving you tired and contented.

You’re aware of Loki nosing at the back of your head, pushing himself up on his elbows, one on either side of your shoulders, bending his neck to kiss the back of your neck as he purrs, “Very good, Kitty.”

“Kitty,” you murmur, unable to stop yourself, and then you sigh dreamily, “I like that.”

“Then Kitty you shall be, pet,” Loki murmurs against your hair, “But don’t sleep too long.”

“You don’t have to wake me up if you want to-” you start to say, and then stop because even now it’s too embarrassing to complete the sentence.  You hope that he gets what you’re trying to say, which is,  _ Please fuck me in my sleep _ .  Somnophilia is something you’ve heard of, but never tried, and there seems to be no better candidate for it than Loki.

“Mmmmm, now there’s an idea,” he purrs, nipping the outer curve of your ear between his teeth, an action that you protest with a little mewl of displeasure, “Perhaps I shall.  Your relaxed, unresisting body.  Your slick, cum-soaked cunt.  That sounds delightful, don’t you think?”

“Please, Master Loki,” you murmur, squirming and trying to dislodge him enough so that you can curl up and sleep while you can.  Given how awake Loki is, you doubt it will be for long.  

“Sleep, Kitty,” he purrs in your ear as he slides off your back, “While I yet allow it.”

Maybe you nod and maybe you don’t, but you roll fully onto your side with a yawn, and then you’re gone.

**Author's Note:**

> All this Ragnarok Loki got me all hype so I decided to take a break from Star Wars and indulge myself a little bit.
> 
> Your kudos and comments are very much appreciated! You can also find me [here on tumblr](http://magpieminx.tumblr.com).


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